


Bodyguard

by missigma



Category: DCU
Genre: Bodyguard, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Shooting, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missigma/pseuds/missigma
Summary: Today, it is not Batman who is under attack, but Bruce Wayne. Mired in a court battle, he fights to keep his company out of bankruptcy and himself out of jail. But that fight is quickly forgotten as he barely survives an assassination attempt.Clark rushes to his side in Gotham City. With the help of Dick Grayson, he comes to the terrifying conclusion that not only is someone trying to ruin Bruce Wayne, but that person must know his true identity. To protect Bruce, Clark appoints himself as his bodyguard. Despite Bruce’s protests, he accompanies him as Bruce attempts to rebuild his tattered reputation with a new business deal.





	Bodyguard

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the SuperBatBigBang 2019. Thank you to [Ischa](https://art-hour.tumblr.com/) for the lovely artwork paired with this fic and for choosing to collab with me! You can view the artwork on [Tumblr](https://art-hour.tumblr.com/post/186328679689/art-for-bodyguard-by-missigma-written-for-the) or on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19819840).
> 
> This fic is based on one of my very favorite comics, Batman: Blind Justice, which I cannot recommend enough.

1

A struggle. Gunfire. Blood.

The melee of the Gotham City press interrupted. A spray of semi-automatic gunfire. Blood seeping into the granite courthouse steps.

The video played on repeat on every news network. 2 dead, 1 critically injured. 

Clark watched the shaky footage as again, Bruce Wayne stood calm, facing down a mob of civilians and reporters, all clamoring for his blood. Then the shots came, jolting his body backward and he was sprawled across the steps, face blank.

Despite the sheer horror of it, the fact that the two men on either side of Bruce had been instantly killed, Clark found himself struck by what he did not see on Bruce’s face. Bruce had not seen the man coming, did not react until the first shots were fired. He had leaned forward then, one hand behind him to try to push his solicitors out of the line of fire. But even for his exceptional reflexes, he could not react fast enough to outpace gunfire.

Clark stood alone in front of the television, his colleagues had already broken for their desks, some with phones cradled against their ear, others scrolling through Twitter or streams of online coverage.

“Lane!” Perry bellowed across the newsroom. “I want you to take the Wayne story. Take the--”

“I’ll take the story, Perry.” Clark jogged lightly across the room. “Lois is in the middle of the mayoral election coverage, you don’t need to take her off that.”

Already, he caught sight of Lois striding towards them, frowning. “Smallville, don’t you dare.” Her demeanor instantly changed as she turned to Perry, smiling. “It’s no trouble for me to go, Clark could always take over the campaign coverage after he finishes his current social interest story.”

“I filed the county hospital story an hour ago. Perry, send me.”

Perry paused, glancing between them. To Clark, he asked, “Do you still have a contact at Wayne Enterprises?”

“Yes, sir,” Clark did not hesitate in his lie, though he knew from news coverage alone that his contact was incapacitated. 

“Alright, Kent. First plane to Gotham. I want an obituary for Wayne before you land in case he dies at the hospital, understood?”

“Got it,” Clark gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the way Lois scowled after him. He would have to find time to apologize later. He started for the elevator, snagging his bag from his desk as he went. 

“And Kent, I want a damn receipt this time!”

\----

Clark spotted a few familiar faces on the plane, all doubtlessly assigned the same story as him. There was a Daily Star reporter who barely seemed to look up from his phone, even as his seatmates jostled him, and a television crew from a national network sprinkled through the seats on his right.

As soon as they were in the air, Clark drew out his laptop and began pulling up his previous stories on Bruce. Then he brought up the latest coverage by the Gotham Gazette. 

Clark knew, in a general way, what Bruce had been accused of in the preceding months. It was impossible to escape the all-encompassing story, even if he personally had not been covering it. He had known and had done his best to ignore it, dismissing it. Now, he opened up Bruce’s indictment and the court coverage from the past week.

The chief accusation was espionage, circled with a laundry list of white-collar charges. Money laundering. Fraud. Tax evasion. And, at least, Clark knew most of the charges involving money were probably true. Though Clark barely understood the specifics, he was aware that Bruce hid money in questionably legal ways to fund his vigilantism, among other projects. 

However, it was laughable how that had been twisted to paint Bruce as the epicenter of a spying network, the agent of foreign countries. Whoever had discovered his hidden accounts had clearly only barely scratched the surface. That, or they were purposely smearing him. 

Regardless, the momentum had built up over the last months and weeks, fueled by a defector from inside Wayne Enterprises itself. A slow trickle of stories that Wayne Enterprises was being investigated by the Gotham District Attorney's office had eventually revealed that Bruce himself was the target. A preliminary hearing on his pending court case had been scheduled today.

Bruce had struggled to defend himself in the press; struggled to explain his travels abroad when he was younger. Struggled to explain why he had associated with dangerous men in Kahndaq, in China, in Russia. The truth of it was something he could not reveal, so his defense had been hobbled, his counsel reportedly often frustrated with him.

From anyone else’s eyes, it all seemed incredibly suspect. Unless, of course, you knew just what it was that Bruce was hiding. 

Though Clark had seen Bruce several times in the last few weeks, they had never spoken of his legal troubles. Clark knew he would not appreciate his sympathy, so he did not offer it.

In the obituary, Clark knew he could not hope to avoid the topic of the recent legal proceedings. He could not defend him there, or anywhere else. The absolute dearth people who knew Bruce’s innocence both troubled him and made him feel utterly alone. 

He did not at this moment know whether Bruce was alive or dead. There was no word, not from the hospital, not from Wayne Enterprises, not from Bruce’s family. It frustrated Clark that he could not simply fly there under his own power to find the answer, but he owed Perry a receipt and Superman did not pay visits to Bruce Wayne.

So, he stretched out his senses, the distance frustrating his efforts to hear Bruce’s heartbeat. Or so he told himself as the vastness of sound opened to him, absent the familiar sound of Bruce’s heart. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he started on the obituary.

Bruce Wayne, owner of Wayne Enterprises and noted philanthropist in Gotham City, dies at 35.

He stopped there, staring at his blinking caret. Abruptly, turbulence shook the fragile craft. Turning his head, he looked out the narrow portal into the greyness of clouds that surrounded them. Again, he searched for the sound of Bruce’s heart, and again he heard nothing.

\----

As the plane taxied towards the terminal, Clark began dialing. He tried the Wayne manor number, Alfred’s number, then finally Bruce’s. None got him a response. Though it frustrated him, Clark tried to tell himself it was perfectly reasonable, that there were more pressing issues for Alfred than picking up his calls. Slowly, he unfolded himself from the cramped seat, keeping his head ducked low as he shuffled out into the aisle behind a line of other travelers.

As he walked up the ramp, Clark tried a much more seldom used number. Tapping his fingers on the strap of his bag, he waited through three rings, before finally his call was picked up.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end was quieter than he expected, hushed and anxious.

“Dick?”

“Yeah.” 

Dick offered no further greetings, so Clark asked outright. “How is he?”

“Don’t know.” Dick inhaled. “He’s been in there for three hours. We won’t know anything until the surgeon comes out.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Clark promised, finding himself nodding though Dick could not see him. “And Dick, thank you.”

“See you soon, big blue.”

\----

The terminal above was noisy, packed with passengers from other recently disembarked flights, all messily moving in a massive herd back towards the security checkpoint. 

As Clark shuffled along, head down and bag pulled tight to his stomach, he heard the first whispers.

“...did you hear? The Gazette posted....”

“...shot him. The ambulance was there in three minutes...”

“...said he died at Wayne Memorial...”

A flat screen mounted on the wall caught Clark’s attention and he paused to read the banner on the cable news station: Breaking: Gotham Gazette Reports Bruce Wayne Dies in Hospital.

His stomach dropped, even as his mind spun into ready denial. He had spoken to Dick himself. Bruce wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be.

He stretched out there, eyes shut as he reached for the sound of Bruce’s heart. That would be the final confirmation. He should be able to hear Bruce; he was close enough now that he did not have the excuse of distance, or flight, or anything else.

Though he strained, he spent minutes like that, stopped dead in the middle of the busy terminal, passengers jostling by. And he could not find him, not until he turned towards Gotham City itself. There he heard the beat of Bruce’s heart, weak and slow, but nonetheless there.

Briefly, relief flood through him, before worry crowded back in. While Bruce was alive, he was badly injured. Opening his eyes, Clark peered up at the screen. All around him, dozens of others had stopped to watch, carry-ons awkwardly propped against their legs. 

The anchor cleared her throat, pausing. “Excuse me.” She was flanked by a photo of Bruce in court, blue eyes intent on the proceedings, but face impassive. “-- The Gazette cited multiple anonymous sources inside Wayne Enterprises. According to the Gazette, Wayne was pronounced dead shortly after arriving at the Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital. His two lawyers, who were representing him in a federal espionage case, died at the scene. We have been unable to independently verify this report.”

She shuffled her papers, before looking up at the camera again. “Today, Wayne Enterprises stock fell after the Gotham Gazette reported CEO Bruce Wayne’s death. After the break, we’ll have continuing coverage on what this means for the business.”

As the commercial began, the crowd assembled around the television began to drift away, some checking their phones. Nearby, someone’s cell was ringing. It took Clark several seconds longer than it should have to realize it was his own.

He frowned at the caller ID for a split second before he answered. “Hello?” 

“Kent. Tell me you’re in Gotham,” Perry barked, the buzz of the newsroom evident in the background.

“I just landed a few minutes ago.” Clark turned away from the screen, starting again towards the security cordon. 

“What’s your take on the Gazette story?”

“I don’t think it’s true,” Clark began cautiously, wanting to avoid trying to explain why he was already certain. “There’s been no confirmation from that hospital that I’ve heard.”

“I know, but that just means there’s no confirmation yet. Not that it isn’t true.”

Clark winced, glad that Perry could not see his expression. He did not wish to bring in information Dick had told him in confidence, but it was important to keep this story from spreading any further.

“I just talked to my source. He says no one knows how Wayne is other than he’s on the table right now.”

“How recently did you talk to him?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“And how reliable is he?”

“He’s solid.”

“Alright, Kent. I’ll take that into consideration.” Without any further salutation, he hung up. Bracing himself, Clark shuffled away from the crowded gate.

Visiting Hours

“Ask his family. I’m sure they’ll let me in.” Frustrated, Clark leaned against the receptionist’s desk, hands braced wide. 

The receptionist did not back down. Her eyes caught the lanyard around his neck, even though he had tucked his badge inside his jacket. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you? The staging area is--”

“I’m not here as a reporter,” Clark interrupted, building tension fueling his temper. “I’m here to visit my friend.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t let anyone in who isn’t family. Unless you can--”

Clark sighed. Stepping away from the desk, he texted Dick. Hanging back near the entrance, he did his best to focus on his phone, feigning ignorance of the disapproving glances from the receptionist. It took less than a minute for the door behind her to swing open, Dick stepping through. 

Oddly, Clark realized that it may have been nearly a year than he had last seen him. While he had grown no taller, the young man was now filling out his once-slender frame with the carefully trained muscle of a gymnast. He wore jeans and a t-shirt of an almost obnoxiously electric blue. 

“Hey man.” Dick greeted him softly. He offered a hand which Clark gladly took, then allowed himself to be pulled into a hug. “I’ll walk you back in.” He turned, flashing a smile to the receptionist as she stood to press the button that let the door swing open. 

“How is he?” Clark took a few large strides so that he could walk at his side.

“‘Stable’, they said. He was awake a little while ago. Hate to say it, but he’s seen worse. I think he’ll recover.”

“What about you?” Clark raised his eyebrows, a little concerned. Dick was habitually untidy, so there was no way to tell how he was in his appearance, but his face was typically expressive, allowing Clark to easily read his fear, worry, and apprehension. 

“Me?” Dick glanced at him as if surprised by the question. He ran a hand through his slightly overlong hair, almost smiling as he considered the question. “Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you, S. I guess I’m alright, considering. I’m actually about to head out for the night.”

“Are you-?” Clark cut himself short as he asked the question, uncertain how to phrase it.

Dick easily understood his intent. “Yeah. I think Batman will be out tonight. Least he could do after a day like this.” He led him down a long hallway, nodding slightly at a police officer posted in the hall, before finally pausing outside a large glass door. “This is his room. Now, like I said, I’m going to run.” He reached for Clark’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming out here. Don’t listen to anything he says when he sees you. He’ll be glad that you’re here.”

Clark nodded vaguely at his back as he left. “Thanks,” he muttered softly.

After his exit, Clark remained just outside the door, peering through the glass. Inside, he could see Bruce, far different than he had ever seen him before. He appeared unconscious, or if he were to be optimistic, merely sleeping. That idea itself was so foreign to Clark that it disturbed him; he had never seen Bruce asleep before.

One broad arm lay face up at his side, an IV taped to it. A host of other wires and tubes were attached him, but Clark did not pause to try to determine their purpose. Instead, he focused on Bruce himself.

His face was drawn and pale, a long line of stitches marching up his temple and into his hairline. The worst of the damage, Clark knew, lay beneath the sheets. However, at the moment, Clark could not bring himself to look.

Inside, Alfred rose from his seat. He opened the door to ask quietly, “Would you like to come in, Master Clark?” 

The worries of the day seemed to weigh heavier on Alfred than even they had to Dick, leaving his face tight with worry and eyes heavily shadowed.

“Is he sleeping?” Clark was careful to keep his voice low, worrying that he might rouse Bruce. 

“Yes.”

“Can I get anything for you?”

“No need.” Alfred shook his head. 

After another long glance at Bruce, Clark took a step back. “I think I’ll wait until tomorrow when he’s awake. I’m going to go check on Dick.”

“Very well.” Alfred inclined his head as Clark retreated. “When he wakes I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

\---

The figure perched atop the Wayne Enterprises building was unnervingly familiar. Gaze fixed on the city below, he tapped at the side of his helm, cycling through his screens. The midnight black of the cape hung down around him, largely obscuring the well-muscled arms that balanced him at the edge of the gargoyle. Across his chest, Clark caught a glimpse of the mark of the bat. 

“Dick,” Clark greeted him simply, no grin and no banter. He paused in midair, hanging a few feet from Dick’s side. Clark had long known Dick would take up the cowl if Bruce needed him to. He had even seen him wear it before for a time, but that still did not settle his stomach.

“Clark,” Dick acknowledged him, flicking off his screen and coolly turning his attention towards him. The cowl seemed to sap all light out of Dick’s face, his smile, his youth. Or perhaps it was the weight of today’s events that marked him. “Any news?”

“He’s sleeping.” It was not Bruce’s suit, Clark tried to remind himself, even as he struggled to maintain eye contact with Dick. 

“We’re going to find who did this.” Dick’s tone turned uncharacteristically dark.

“Where do we start?” Clark deferred.

“Gotham PD grabbed the shooter half an hour afterward. There’s been a few leaks, but so far everything points to him acting alone.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“It’s Bruce. I can’t believe that it was a coincidence that someone tried to kill him.”

Clark nodded. “Do you believe it’s connected to the court case?”

“Probably.” Then, with more conviction, he added, “Has to be.”

“What do you know about the spying charges?”

The look he received from Dick was enough to tell him he had touched upon a dangerous topic. Eyes narrowed behind his lenses, Dick raised his voice. “I hope you know him better than to think--”

“Dick.” Clark lifted a hand to try to placate him. “I don’t believe it; I already know what it is that he’s really hiding.”

Inhaling deeply, Dick struggled to collect himself. For a few seconds, Clark caught a glimpse of the man he knew, young, impulsive, and fiercely protective of his adoptive father. When Dick spoke again, his voice was lower. “I don’t know much at all, beyond what’s been in the papers. Bruce has been stonewalling me every time I bring it up. I’ve offered to help him, but he won’t take it. You know how he is.”

Clark nodded. He knew and suspected that it was why Bruce had never spoken with him about the topic. He had never been able to ask for help.

“I have no idea where the accusations are coming from, but it has to be someone who knows who he is. It can’t be a coincidence. As far as I know, Bruce doesn’t even know who’s behind it, or else he would have done something to stop it.” 

“What’s the first stop?”

“GCPD headquarters. Gordon wants to talk.” Dick nodded to the place several blocks away, where a searchlight flooded the sky. He rocked forwards, as if about to jump, before pausing to glance at Clark again.

“You know what sucks?” he asked with a half-smile, abruptly breaking the illusion that this was Bruce’s Batman at his side.

“What?” Clark quirked an eyebrow at him, grudgingly showing interest in however Dick wanted to lighten the mood. 

“I’m going to have to cut my hair if I want to keep wearing the cowl.”

In spite of himself, Clark chuckled, the sound muted by the heaviness in his chest.

Standing, Dick sprung off the gargoyle, throwing himself into a tight roll before extending his arm to fire his grappling gun. Clark followed close behind him as he soared through the skyscraper maze of Gotham’s skies.

\----

"Gordon." Dick deepened his voice when he spoke. His imitation was passable, but Clark doubted it would fool anyone who had regular contact with Batman.

Commissioner Gordon looked him up and down but decided not to comment on the obvious discrepancy in height. His eyes flicked up to Clark next, who hung a few feet behind him, just inches above the roof.

"I'm sure you already know the shooter's in custody."

"Name?"

"Jeremiah Weyhe."

"Has he said anything?"

"Silent. Might have been on something at the time, we’re still testing him."

"Anything else?"

"We found the rifle near his van, over on Washington. We're working on tracing where he bought it from." Finally, he looked Dick dead in the eyes. "If you're going to ask to see him, the answer's no."

Dick's jaw tightened and he lifted his chin. "I didn't ask."

2

A few blocks from the hospital, Clark paused in front of a display of flowers. The little store was painted a soft green with fuchsia trim. The rolling glass door was open, allowing buckets of flowers to spill out onto the street, splashing color into the otherwise grey city. 

For all the variety before him, Clark struggled to pick out any. Roses seemed inappropriate, especially red ones. To Clark, they suggested romance, or at the very least congratulations of some kind.

It begged the question of why Clark was even spending so much time fretting over a gesture Bruce would not appreciate. Surely, he would already have dozens of flowers and cards from well-wishers far wealthier than Clark, who could afford bouquets larger than he could fit in his arms.

However, it seemed right to bring him something, some physical representation of how much he had worried over his injury, over how glad he was that Bruce was even alive. 

From a deep bucket perched on the sidewalk, Clark plucked an arrangement of peonies. It was a cluster of pink and white globes, soft petals still folded tight at the center. The arrangement was indeed smaller than many of the others in the shop, the glass vases of blood-red roses and ferns, the paleness of the lilies, the electric bright purple of the potted orchids. 

He cradled the fragile buds against his chest as he walked to the hospital. Despite yesterday’s turmoil, the city moved on as ever, people skirting crime scene tape and detours to do their business, to work or shop or sightsee. 

Today, the receptionist recognized him and let him in without a word. Clark quickly made his way back to Bruce’s room

“Hey.” Clark paused just inside the door, smoothing over his concern with a smile. He tentatively offered the flowers but did not step any closer.

Bruce met him with a scowl over the top of his copy of the Gotham Gazette. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Mildly taken aback, Clark glanced over at Alfred, who sat near Bruce’s bedside. Alfred barely tipped his head, a little disappointed shake, before rising to take the peonies Clark carried. Cautiously, Clark persisted, coming up to stand at Bruce’s side. “It’s visiting hours.”

“There’s far better uses for your time.” Bruce returned his attention to the paper. 

“I think this is important,” Clark watched Bruce cringe. “But if it makes you feel better, I promise if I’m needed elsewhere, I’ll go.”

For the moment, Bruce seemed to accept his presence, but that did not seem to improve his mood. He set the paper on his stomach. “I’m sure you can see the damage.” He gestured downwards, sweeping his palm a few inches over his hip.

Eyes flickering briefly over to Alfred, Clark shifted his gaze until Bruce’s bones gleamed ghostly white under his hospital gown. Not only had flesh been torn by the bullets, but bone had also broken too. At his hip, the bone was held together by several pins, the new break just beginning to knit back together at a microscopic level.

Clark instantly understood Bruce’s frustration. In the very best of outcomes, the injury would keep him off his feet for months and off duty for longer, if he was able to return at all.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You could stop treating me like an injured animal.”

Clark inhaled, chewing slightly at his lip. “Alright, I’m sorry.”

“Alfred tells me you’re in Gotham to report on my story.”

“Sir, that’s precisely the opposite of what I said--” Alfred began to cut in. 

“I’m just using it for cover, Bruce. I didn’t come here to report on you,” Clark tried to assure him.

“I saw your byline.” Bruce’s voice grew weaker. Already, the illusion of power Bruce had been struggling to hold up seemed to be cracking. “I hope the obituary you prepared for me was better than the shit the Gazette posted online last night.”

Biting his tongue, Clark reached for Bruce’s hand, which lay curled on top of the paper. “Bruce,” he lifted his hand, folding both of his own around it. “I get that you’re angry--”

“Don’t.” Bruce tried to withdraw his hand, but Clark held him fast. His fingers were cool to the touch and held nowhere near his usual strength. 

“I’ll be here as long as you need me. I’m sure the other members of the League feel the same.”

“I don’t want pity.” Bruce turned his gaze to the ceiling. 

“I care about you, Bruce.”

That was met with silence. Bruce pressed his eyes shut, then uncomfortably straightened his uninjured leg.

“If you don’t want me here, then say so.” Clark loosened his grip on Bruce’s hand.

Immediately, Bruce withdrew his fingers. “I think I’ve already made my opinion on the subject clear.”

“Alright,” Clark grudgingly accepted. As he turned towards the door, he glanced back. “I’ll talk to you in a few days.”

Release

In the midst of the press scrum, Clark stood still. The impatient chatter of the other reporters surrounded him.

“The conspiracy is, what if Wayne hired him himself?”

“He was nearly killed!”

“So, maybe they botched the job. Made it a little too convincing.” Turning his head, Clark found the culprit idly chattering with the closest neighbor, Vicki Vale.

“That’s impossible.” Vale dismissed him with a shake of her head. 

Before the reporter could pursue the conversation, the hospital doors slid open. Bruce sat at the center of a cluster of security, nurses, and with Alfred at his back. 

The reporters gathered close even as a half dozen policemen tried to hold them back. Through the middle of it all, Alfred wheeled Bruce down the sidewalk to the waiting car. Bruce sat upright in his chair, hands braced on either armrest. He acknowledged no one around him, nor did Alfred. A nurse helped lift Bruce out of the wheelchair, settling him in the back of the car. The movement seemed to pain Bruce and he winced, his whole face scrunching up before abruptly smoothing over again. Alfred closed the door behind him, shielding him from the flash of the cameras. 

For a split-second Bruce met his gaze, eyes frosty, before settling back into his seat.

____

That was the last that Clark saw him for weeks. He did not mean for that to happen, but somehow the churn of his life started to turn so quickly that he could scarcely keep ahead of it. With Bruce out of the public eye to recover, Clark was expected back in Metropolis. There, there were new threats, new stories. He spent a week hunting Parasite, then several days more surveilling the new construction at Lex Corp. And between those activities, there was the constant flow of everyday disasters, fires and bank robberies and a subway brake failure.

Whenever he had enough time to gather himself, he thought of Bruce. He greatly regretted that he could not be there more often, though it would take less than a minute for him to cover the distance and land on Bruce’s front lawn. However, he reminded himself that Bruce would not want him there. That he would grumble and growl, and Clark could not be sure he was causing more angst than comfort. So, he chose the easier option and did not go to him.

\----

Clark caught the headline just before midnight: Bruce Wayne To Make First Public Appearance Since Courthouse Shooting.

While the man who had attempted to assassinate Bruce was in custody, there remained the looming worry that a larger plot was involved. Since no mastermind had been apprehended or even named, Clark could not be sure that Bruce was out of danger, that there would not be another attempt on his life.

Naturally, Clark desired to be at his side until he could be assured that he was relatively safe again, or at least better able to defend himself. Both Clark Kent and Superman lacked an excuse to assume that kind of role. But that did not mean there was not something else he might attempt.

\---

“I’m concerned about Bruce.” A dozen worried eyes turned to him. “Has anyone here talked to him recently?”

The initial worry seemed to turn to guilt as they all awkwardly shifted, refusing to meet Clark’s gaze. Barry was the first to volunteer an answer. “I called him right after it happened to tell him ‘get well soon’ and all that. He hung up on me.” 

A few feet away, Vic nodded but offered no addition.

Diana spoke next. “I visited him two weeks ago. I meant only to wish him well, but he was--” she shook her head, tossing back her hair from her shoulders. “Difficult. Paranoid and childish.”

“He’s going to return to public life tomorrow, even though no one knows who’s been targeting him. I’m worried someone else will succeed in harming him. My proposition is that I’ll take time off from the League and go undercover as his bodyguard.”

“He won’t like that.” Vic crossed his arms over his barrel-broad chest.

“I know.” Clark winced. He knew he was risking his friendship with Bruce, but still, the idea of losing him frightened him more. “Still, I want to be there for him.”

“Your decision.” Vic shrugged, not seeming wholly convinced.

Diana caught hold of his arm before he could leave. “Clark, a moment.” Quickly he turned back to her. “Be careful.”

“Of course I will.” Clark shook his head a little, uncertain of the cause for her sudden worry over his wellbeing. 

“With Bruce,” she clarified. “Be careful with him. He’s hurting right now.”

“Oh.”

“He’s trying to push us away because he feels weak. Don’t let him.”

“I’ll try,” was the best Clark felt able to offer. A new weight seemed to grow in his chest, a responsibility he did not feel quite capable of satisfying.  
3

Clark made his appearance in the middle of Bruce’s sitting room, finding him with his wheelchair at the edge of a large wooden table, pouring over a heavy file. He raised an eyebrow as Clark alighted on the carpet a few feet from him. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Bruce began, Wayne charm laid heavily over his words, before he eased up on his pretense of politeness. “As I don’t seem to remember inviting you.”

“I’d like to have a talk with you.”

Sighing, Bruce wheeled himself around, before halting a few feet in front of Clark. Brows drawn together, his eyes trailed skeptically over Clark. “What are you wearing?”

“I’m your new bodyguard.” His clothes were simple: black suit, white shirt, dark tie. Clark was clearly aware of the fact that the jacket did not fit him well, hanging far too loose from his shoulders. But when he had bought it, that had been half the point. It had been meant to make Clark Kent look small and sloppy, not to impress those who ran in Bruce's circles. 

“First of all, my bodyguard would be able to afford a better suit.” Bruce slowly approached him, one hand extended. When he was close enough, he grasped at Clark’s lapel, fingers quickly slipping down the cheap wool blend. “Secondly, I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Clark had a ready answer to that at least. “You’ve always had security, and unfortunately, this is the best I can afford.”

“I’ve had security for appearances only.” Bruce released the suit coat to retreat slightly, wheeling himself back half a foot. 

“The League thought it would be for the best if you had someone stay with you until whoever is behind the assassin is apprehended.”

Bruce scoffed. “Don’t pretend it was the League’s idea; it was yours.”

“They agreed with me. Unanimously.”

“I don’t seem to remember voting or am I no longer a member?”

“Bruce--” Clark sighed. “You’re infinitely valuable to us--”

“Then why haven’t you called me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were still recovering--”

“If I’m so useful to you, give me work.”

Turning his back to him, Clark pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Would it be better if I asked someone else to take this job? Perhaps Diana--”

“No,” Bruce interrupted. Letting his glasses slide back down onto his nose, Clark glanced back at him, a little surprised by his sharpness. Softening slightly, Bruce continued, “You’ll do just fine after you’re fitted for a few new suits.”

Wheeling himself in a tight circle, Bruce started out towards the entryway. “Alfred’s bringing the car around.” Hurrying past him, Clark opened the front door. Carefully, Bruce descended the makeshift ramp assembled over the steps at the mansion’s entrance. He halted on the cobbled brick driveway, eyeing the distant garage. 

“Do you need help getting in?”

Bruce briefly glanced at the ground, as if about to refuse him. Then his eyes fixed on Alfred as he drove up to the house. “Yes,” he reluctantly allowed.

Hands firm, Clark guided Bruce inside as gently as he was able. He caught the strained set of Bruce’s mouth as he shifted position, the slightest movement clearly incredible agony. After Clark shut the door to walk around to the other side, Bruce briefly tilted his head back, apparently believing Clark would not notice. By the time Clark slid into the seat next to him, he had righted himself again, the beginnings of Bruce Wayne’s character seeping into his posture. 

“You should leave the glasses off.” Bruce nodded to Clark Kent’s thick frames which still sat on Clark’s nose. “I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’d hired Clark Kent as my bodyguard.”

Reluctantly, Clark took off his glasses, tucking them into his pocket. “Aren’t you worried they’ll think Superman is your bodyguard?”

“I think that might be to your advantage.” 

***

The court appearance was only procedure, Bruce appearing long enough for his new lawyers to argue that the trial should be delayed until Bruce had better recovered and they had had more time to review the case.

Six more months were given, with little argument from the prosecution. Bruce shrunk from the spotlight, now rarely appearing in public during his recovery. And he disappeared from every other aspect of his life, from what Clark could tell: his work, personal heroics, and the League.

***

It was three months before Clark heard from anyone in Gotham. His communicator chimed softly in his ear, before a voice broke into his thoughts. “Hey, S.”

Clark caught himself just before using the wrong name. “Batman,” he acknowledged him, doing his best to seem friendly. “What can I do for you?”

“Bruce is going away on Tuesday,” Dick began slowly, and Clark already had a growing suspicion that he was about to ask him for a favor.

“Where?” Clark replied, curious what Dick might want from him. 

“Phoenix.” There was a pause and the sound of a gunning engine. “He’s working on talks to expand Wayne Enterprises. Trying to shore up his reputation again with a big new investment.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I heard you were posing as his bodyguard.”

“You aren’t angry about that?” Clark had feared Dick might have seen that as a usurpation of his newfound role of Batman, protector of Gotham and all things within it.

“No, of course not,” the answer came immediately. “Bruce is still furious, of course. But I think it’s for the best until I find whoever’s trying to kill him.”

“Did something happen recently?”

Dick sighed into the receiver. “I should have known he wouldn’t tell you.” There was another brief pause. “Someone tried to pose as his driver to abduct him.”

“What happened?” 

A soft snort followed. “He beat him with his cane then called me to clean up the mess.” That gave Clark enough information to find an article online from a smaller Gotham outlet, quoting Bruce Wayne’s praise of Batman saving him from a “random carjacking.”

“And you think this was connected to the assassination attempt?”

“Sure, but I haven’t been able to find anything that proves that yet. It would be a hell of a coincidence if it was random, but this is Gotham after all.”

“Ok. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Let me know if you find anything else.”

***

Dick met him on the front lawn, smile wide despite the circles under his eyes. “Good to see you, man.”

“You too.” Clark echoed, trying to flatten his windswept hair as he scanned the manor. He found Bruce in his bedroom.

Dick caught his arm before he could make his way into the manor. He kept his voice low, as if wary of eavesdroppers. "Just so you know, he's--worse."

"Worse how? Is his leg--?"

"No." Dick shook his head. "I think it's frustration. Since the fight with the driver, he hasn't left the cave. He runs support for me at night, but I have no idea what else he does when I'm not there. He's honestly driving me crazy; there's a damn good reason I haven't lived with him for years."

"Okay."

Releasing him, Dick took a few steps back. "He'll probably try to hide it from you, but you'll see it soon enough."

***

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” Bruce pushed himself upright, leaning slightly on his cane. He hardly sounded glad to see him. “There’s a few things for you in the closet.”

Sighing, Clark opened the closet, knowing what was to come. He found the garment bag just on the left inside and lay it across the bed. Hesitating, he glanced up at Bruce before pulling down the zipper.

Inside lay four suits. Clark frowned his fingers slid over the fine wool. There were two charcoal, one navy, and one a medium grey. “Bruce,” he attempted, “You didn’t need to do this. I--”

“I’m sure you would have gone on quite happily wearing that one if I hadn’t, but you’d look like a pretty poor bodyguard then, wouldn’t you?” Bruce edged a step closer, now standing at the foot of the bed. “The appearance of power is important. I thought you would know something about that.”

Clark did his best not to glare outright.

“Put it on.” 

The navy suit lay on top, so Clark picked that one, drawing it out of the bag. He lay his own suit coat out on the bed, then realizing Bruce apparently felt no reason to excuse himself, his trousers. Awkwardly, he turned his back to him as he stood in his shirttails and boxer-briefs, dragging the new slacks over his sock feet. 

Indeed, it did fit better, though that might have been an understatement considering the state of his old suit. The trousers could stay up without his belt, and the inseam was long enough to cover his ankles now, hiding his blue argyle socks. Finally, the back of his jacket did not bind, and the waist cut in enough to fit to the shape of his body. 

Leaning against the dresser, Bruce surveyed him critically, head cocked to the side. Bracing himself on his cane, he stepped forwards and pulled gently at the front of the coat as he buttoned the first button.

“It might need to be tailored further as I didn’t have you there in person. However, at least you’re not swimming in your jacket anymore.”

“Bruce, it’s fine.”

Bruce made a disgruntled noise, smoothing at the shoulders of the suit coat. “It’s passable. And glasses-” he reached inside his own jacket, pulling out a pair of sunglasses. Unfolding the stems, he stretched up, carefully fitting them over Clark’s ears so they sat on his nose. 

“Well, I’m sure I look like a fool now.” Clark shook his head, attempting to withdraw. However, Bruce followed him for a few paces.

“You don’t,” Bruce assured him. “Though you probably should only wear them outside.”

Lifting the glasses, Clark glanced in the mirror. He frowned as he stared at his reflection; he had never owned anything quite like this. He smoothed a hand down the wool as if to banish a nonexistent wrinkle. In the inside pocket of the jacket, Clark heard a crinkle of paper. Brow furrowed, he pulled it out. It was a check, the flowing shape of Bruce Wayne’s signature at the bottom.

“What’s this?” Clark shook the slip of paper slightly, though he understood quite clearly what it was. 

“Your wages.” Bruce turned as if that meant the conversation was over, but Clark followed him, blocking his exit. 

“I don’t need your money, Bruce.”

“If you insist on being my bodyguard, then you’ll have to also be my bodyguard on paper, or else accounting might get suspicious,” Bruce smirked as he played his cards. “It’s only fair I pay you a living wage.”

“This is more than a ‘living wage.’” Clark squinted at the check, counting and recounting the zeroes. “I’m not a charity case.”

“You have no idea how much bodyguards make, do you?” Then he shrugged. “If you don’t want the money, you can do whatever you like with it. It’s yours.”

“Though I wouldn’t mind knowing if it’s Alfred or Dick who’s feeding you information about my whereabouts if you’re feeling like you need to repay me.” Bruce tilted his head slyly.

Clark shook his head, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I don’t think I should tell you.”

Any charm quickly dissolved from Bruce’s face. “I suppose Dick already told you about the trip. The car leaves in half an hour.”

4

Clark had never been in Bruce’s private jet. Not the Batwing, the luxury airliner Bruce Wayne used for travel. 

Alfred remained on the tarmac. In name, he was there to keep Wayne Manor, though he clearly also intended to keep watch over Dick’s fledgling Batman. 

That left Clark and Bruce alone in the cabin, awkwardly facing each other in dark leather seats. Bruce briefly glowered at him, before downing a handful of pills and leaning back in his seat. Though he shut his eyes, Clark doubted that he was asleep.

Deprived of a partner for conversation, Clark pulled a battered paperback out of his bag and tried to keep his focus within the plane, though his gaze often strayed towards the window. On the horizon, he caught sight of a great plume of smoke, stretching high into the atmosphere. The haze obscured the source of the fire, until Clark shifted his gaze down to the infrared spectrum, finding a great blaze consuming a steep mountainside. 

Briefly, Clark wondered if he could close the door quickly enough to keep the cabin from depressurizing. Sighing, he forced that impulse down. The League would take care of the fire and they would call him if he was needed. 

“Flash is down there.”

Clark looked up, finding Bruce’s eyes fixed on him under heavy eyelids. He nodded slightly, reassured. “Good.”

Slowly Bruce shifted in his seat, unfastening his seatbelt and tipping his hip upwards. Though he settled back again, an uncomfortable twist to his lips remained.

“Can I get you anything?” Clark turned his book facedown, pages splayed open over his armrest.

“No.” Bruce shut his eyes briefly as he moved again, taking the weight off his injury. “Pills kicked in a few minutes ago. This is as good as it’s going to get.”

“Okay.” Clark idly ran his fingers over the pages, before awkwardly leaning in, “What have you been working on?”

“Plumbing me for information the second I show a sign of weakness?” Bruce smirked slightly, though his grimace soon returned. “And to think I thought you were an honorable example of your profession.”

“Bruce, I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“I’ve been doing physical therapy for my hip and running support for Dick.”

“I heard he’s still working on tracking the man behind the assassination attempt.”

“He is.” Bruce barely nodded, seeming disinterested. 

“Any progress?”

“Not much to it at the moment. The gunman himself seems to be a dead end.”

“I heard.” Clark nodded. “Have there been any recent developments?”

Swearing under his breath, Bruce rolled his eyes. “There’s not much point to this conversation if Dick’s already told you everything."

"Sorry," Clark murmured reflexively, though he scarcely meant it. "I just want to know what you know. I want to know what we're up against."

"You should ask Gotham PD. They're the only ones working actively on the case."

“Are you trying to tell me you’re not investigating?”

“That’s what I said.”

"Why not?"

"I have full faith in the Gotham PD to--"

"Bullshit." 

"Language," Bruce drawled, smirking.

Frustrated, Clark slumped back in his seat. He knew there would be no point in pressuring him further. “Fine. Tell me about your court case.”

Bruce quirked an eyebrow. “What do you want to know?”

“Is any of it true?”

“I’m not a foreign agent if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No. Tax evasion.”

“I’ll allow my lawyers to answer that question.”

“Why did you leave Gotham when you were a teenager?”

“I suspect I’m not the only one who traveled in my youth.”

“No. But most don’t have the same itinerary as you. Brazil, Egypt, and France might be common enough, but Kahndaq? Kazakhstan? Tajikistan? Xinjiang? Mongolia? Ukraine? And in each of those places, you did not stay in the capitals or near the monuments.”

“I could ask you the same. Why spend years of your life in the DRC?”

“I was in the Peace Corps.”

“Exactly. It only seems criminal if you lay it out as a list of far off places that have violent histories, and in my case, countries with close ties to Russia and China. I can promise you that each had something to teach me.”

“That explanation would hold more weight if you hadn’t kept the company of criminals.”

“Then you’d need to provide evidence of that, wouldn’t you? Something better than rumor.”

“Bruce, this isn’t the court of law.” 

“What is it then? The court of public opinion? Or of the media?”

“Bruce,” Clark heaved a sigh. “I trust you, probably more than you realize. When this story broke, I didn’t believe it by default. But there has to be more happening here. It has to be someone from your past in order to dredge up all of this. I need to know what’s happening in order to protect you.”

“Then you don’t trust me.” Bruce’s gaze quickly lost its heat. “Not that I blame you.”

He leaned forwards slightly, bracing himself with hands on either side of his seat. “I was in Ukraine tracking a former KGB agent.” “I was 22, and it was supposed to be my final test to myself to see if I could use everything I had learned. Planning, infiltration, fighting.”

“What happened?”

Bruce quirked his lips, though the motion could hardly be described as a smile. “I failed.”

Clark waited, hoping for more, though not quite willing to probe further. It was so rare to hear something quite so personal from Bruce he was afraid to dissuade him.

“I didn’t tell you, Clark, because I didn’t want to disrupt League missions with my personal life. And while I did not do anything I believed to be against my morals, it’s not a time in my life that I’m proud of. I made many mistakes, some of which still follow me today.”

Though that left far too much yet to be explained, it was enough to sate his curiosity for now.

\----

A wall of heat greeted them as soon as they exited the cabin, though it was quickly banished again as they climbed into the back of a black car. The chauffeur quickly navigated away from the washed out brown and beige of the airport tarmac and its surrounding buildings and into another section of the city. Here the buildings slowly changed from low brick businesses to collections of apartments and sprawling office complexes. Greenery seemed to sprout up from nowhere around them. Soon lush green lawns and massive trees lined the road, some pines, some olive, some eucalyptus. 

When they arrived at the hotel, the day’s sweltering heat remained, doubled by humidity as dark clouds lined the distant horizon. The closest peak was lit a brilliant orange, a sharp contrast between the grey clouds behind it.

They were given a low concrete cottage, set a few dozen yards back from the conference hall. Though there were separate rooms, they shared the space. First, so that Clark could fulfill his role of token bodyguard, second, so that he could help him if Bruce needed it. 

Clark chose the smaller bedroom, though the size did not make the space any less luxurious. “Dinner’s at eight,” Bruce told him as Clark hung up his garment bag. “Wear the linen suit this time.”

Leaving his cane resting against the bed, Bruce disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

He did not reappear until a scarce ten minutes before eight. He wore a soft grey suit over a black shirt, the coat unbuttoned. Bruce had smoothed his somewhat disheveled hair.

The more casual nature of Bruce Wayne seemed to seep into his body, relaxing his shoulders and his gait. They took the narrow path back to the main building, through the great oak door, and into the dim light inside.

A private dining room was provided for them, separated from the restaurant by stained glass in abstract shapes. Through the door sat Calygos and his partner.

Calygos was a tall, white-haired man whose hairline seemed to have only just started receding, despite the fact he seemed to be nearly seventy. He was thin, but not frail, and had the bearing of a former military man.

“Craig,” Bruce offered a hand to him across the small table. Calygos met him with a genuine smile.

His partner was in her fifties, hair a bottle blonde. Though she was quite beautiful, she was not here for appearances alone. Still smiling, Bruce shook her hand. “Kennedy.”. As they sat, however, her eyes remained suspiciously on Clark, who had posted himself near the door. Clark offered her an awkward half-smile, quite unused to this sort of suspicion.

Following her gaze, Bruce smiled. “I hope you don’t mind. He’s barely let me out of his sight since he was hired. I hope you understand the circumstances.”

“No, I understand,” Kennedy answered, turning her attention back to Bruce, though tension remained in her posture. 

“Thank you. My board members get very upset whenever I give him the slip.” Bruce gave her a mischievous grin, to which she laughed politely.

The dinner was an introduction, not for business. That would come later, with meetings scheduled over the next week between Bruce, various members of Calygos management, and the owners themselves. Tonight was for talk alone.

5

The next morning, a chauffeur took them into the heart of the city, driving past lines of shops built in the first rush and not painted again since. Heat blurred the pavement just a few yards away, shimmering, water-like and evaporating before you could come close.

A sparse cluster of skyscrapers marked the city center. A few were old monuments of stone and tile, but most were the bland corporate sheets of glass. The sidewalks were empty, with only rows of spindly palm trees to shade them from the sun.

The first rush of heat after the air-conditioned interior was something Clark was still not used to. Even in the dusty interior of the parking garage, it was hard to describe. Any other time he had described a summer day as oven-like had been mere hyperbole but in this weather, it had a ring of truth.

They were ushered through a side door into the building to a rush of cold air. Bruce stood beside him a second, hesitating as his eyes adjusted to the banks of fluorescent bulbs. Even a few brief moments outside had brought sweat to his brow. Not out of exertion, but from temperature alone.

With Bruce Wayne in the spotlight, Clark faded into the background, following a few paces behind him. He watched from a place near the door as a young woman prepared him to be on camera. And though he might seem to be more charming, more handsome more, more engaging than he had ever been before, there was an odd emptiness to the character, a lack of anything that made him Bruce, a real man.

But that was all Bruce needed for the interview.

Left to his own devices in the dressing room, Clark leaned back against the table, eyes fixed on the monitor. Bruce leaned back in his chair, instantly at home on the set.

“It’s not just you who’s been turning heads since you’ve landed. People have noticed that you have a new bodyguard who’s very attractive. How do you feel about him stealing the spotlight?”

“I hired Clark because he’s good at his job,” Bruce began, over harsh. Then he leaned conspiratorially close. “Which is looking good in a suit.”

That brought a chuckle from the host and louder laughter from the audience. Though there was no one there to see him, Clark felt heat rise to his cheeks.

Bruce was charming and affable. Perhaps overly so, Clark thought as he watched Bruce lean across the table to rest gently his hand over the host’s. But he could not deny that he played the part well.

By that evening, the local news was filled with details of his visit and footage of his overtly charming interview. For once, the coverage overshadowed mention of his court case and the shooting.

After an afternoon of meetings, the night promised a greater spotlight: a gala, complete with red carpet. The event kicked off a week-long automobile auction. However often the desert city might be overlooked, this single event was internationally known. Officially, it was the reason Bruce was in town. 

At nearly eight, Clark glumly shepherded Bruce into the car.

The city lights receded behind them as they drove towards the northern mountains. They stopped in the foothills, twilight only barely illuminating their surroundings.

The grand gala was rather oddly situated in a large rodeo arena, its true purpose barely shrouded by the tents that surrounded it and a thin, temporary carpet. However, that carpet was red.

Their chauffeur slowly followed the line of cars that snaked closer to the largest tent, finally pausing in the gravel outside the entrance. Clark offered a hand which Bruce pointedly refused.

With a tight-lipped smile, Clark followed him towards the doors, already scanning the crowd around them. An odd mix of people surrounded them, ranging from business elites to retirees. An exhibition hall, filled with gleaming cars slowly funneled them all towards the arena.

There were too many people. Clark could not track them all with enough accuracy to ensure Bruce’s safety. As it was, they could barely walk for the milling crowd.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark laid his hand on his shoulder. “We need to leave.”

Bruce shrugged his hand away, having already become entangled in conversation with an older couple. Exasperated, Clark turned, scouting for their best escape route.

Behind him, he heard a commotion. Too late, Clark turned to watch as a woman shoved Bruce to the ground. 

Almost too fast, Clark dashed to his side. He pushed the woman back into the waiting grasp of two security guards. He knelt at Bruce’s side, grasping his arm. “Bruce.”

Bruce remained on his back too long, eyes shut and mouth twisted into a line. He did not swear but his silence was far more frightening as he barely seemed able to breathe through the pain. 

“Should I call an ambulance?”

“No,” Bruce gritted out, finding that threat enough to force himself into a sitting position. “Clark,” he gripped white-knuckled at Clark’ arm. “I need you to help me get out of here.”

Clark could feel a crush of people forming at his back. Though he was loathe to move him while injured, he had little choice. As carefully as he could, Clark lifted Bruce into his arms.

Outside, he managed to catch up to their chauffeur, still caught in the long line of traffic on the single-lane road. Hurriedly, he opened the back door, “What happened?”

“Fell,” Bruce grunted as Clark helped him into his seat.

The driver met Clark’s eyes in the rearview mirror, incredulous and a little panicked. Clark leaned close to the partition. “Can you take us to the nearest hospital?”

“No.”

“Bruce-“

“I didn’t re-injure my hip.”

Clark briefly scanned him and had to agree, there was no sign of breakage in the healing bone or new damage to the surrounding tissue. “But-“

“I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Bruce closed his eyes. “Take us to the Biltmore.”

***

Bruce held court from his bed, propped up against a mass of overstuffed pillows. For once, he deigned to allow professionals to handle his PR, surrendering the narrative as he knocked back his medication with a glass of whiskey. Though it was late in Gotham, others needed to be reassured first hand: members of his board, several investors, and a few political contacts.

The television droned on in front of him. Clips of the morning interview were quickly replaced with blurry cell phone footage of the assault. Arms crossed, Clark watched from barely a foot away, watching the video loop over and over again.

In the background, he saw himself step away, distracted. From this angle the threat seemed so obvious, the way the woman fixated on Bruce and drew closer. But Clark had been focused on the concealed carry a few yards away. He felt stupid, useless, awful. The video of the shooting played next, and Clark could barely watch. Bruce said nothing to him at all.

As the hour grew later, Bruce’s phone finally fell silent. Bruce seemed to fade, some combination of the alcohol, drugs, and legitimate exhaustion finally bringing him close to sleep. Apparently tiring of the endless loop of footage, Bruce switched off the television.

For a few long seconds, Clark stared at the blank screen, thoughts still reeling though the video had stopped.

“Sit down.” 

Reluctantly, Clark broke away from the television. Blinking, he sat at the side of the bed opposite Bruce.

“Drink?” Bruce offered his glass. Clark took it and downed the contents as he continued. “I know it won’t help to tell you to stop tearing yourself up over it.”

“No.”

Bruce plucked the glass from his fingers, replacing it with the bottle.

“Trying to get me drunk?” Clark managed a rueful smile.

“I’m not sure that’s possible.” Bruce shrugged, “Could always try though.”

Clark took a long swig from the bottle. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

Clark glanced briefly at the bottle, then set it down on the nightstand. “You know it’s not just about tonight.”

With unusual patience, Bruce waited for him to continue.

“I’m just,” Clark paused, “scared.” He leaned against the edge of the bed. “For a while, I thought you were dead. I felt helpless.”

“And it was the same tonight, even though I was there, I was distracted. What if-” Clark bit his tongue, cutting himself short. He raised his head to find Bruce watching him levelly.

“You know that danger will always be there.”

Clark swallowed and turned towards Bruce. “I know. Somehow this just finally made me understand what it was going to be like to lose you.”

“Clark,” Bruce levered himself up from his pillows.

“I’m sorry,” Clark shook his head. “I shouldn’t-”

“Then stop planning my funeral.” 

Clark froze in the silence that followed. Bruce waited, eyebrow quirked and his hands braced behind him.

Finally Clark huffed out a laugh, at which Bruce raised his brow even higher, as his expression turned to genuine confusion. Clark leaned closer, still smiling slightly. “This never had to be complicated, did it?”

He kissed Bruce, thumb sweeping up the corner of his chin. Clark climbed into bed beside him, barely parting from him as Bruce sank back into the pillows. But abruptly he pulled away, nagging uncertainty holding him back.

“Sorry,” he whispered, sliding off the bed. 

Bruce’s face remained unreadable as Clark left the room.

6  
The next day passed uneventfully, with neither man mentioning the events of the night before. The afternoon packed with meetings and the occasional well-wisher soon turned to evening.

Bruce led Clark to the hotel bar. It was an old speakeasy, lit by nothing more than dim stain glass lamps set into the patterned concrete walls.

"What are we doing here?" Clark frowned from his place a few feet behind the booth Bruce occupied.

"Just passing time." 

"Somehow I don't believe that."

Bruce glanced back over his shoulder at him. "It's time for Bruce Wayne to rebuild his reputation."

"What does that mean?"

"Could mean anything. Maybe I'll mix the wrong pills with alcohol and my bodyguard will have to carry me up to my room. Or maybe a better opportunity will come along." As he spoke, his eyes flickered over to a woman who leaned against the bar. While all the other women at the bar wore suits and cocktail dresses, she wore a beige jumpsuit, the color just a few shades lighter than her skin. The jumpsuit was held in place by a golden clasp at each shoulder, the slinky fabric flowing over her breasts. The neckline plunged, the suit fitting tight around her waist and hips before billowing out again as it passed her thighs, the fabric growing sheer.

It was easy to see where this road led. As Bruce carefully steered her towards asking her up to his room, his eyes briefly met Clark's. Clark shook his head. Never mind his own power, it still was too dangerous to leave Bruce naked and alone with a stranger. She caught the gesture. Eyebrow raised, she glanced back to Bruce. 

"Sorry," Bruce grinned at her. "He hates to let me out of his sight."

Her eyes flashed over Clark calculatingly, lingering as she looked him over. "He could join us." She smoothed one finger down Bruce's chest.

Clark ducked his head, cheeks burning. He waited for Bruce to excuse him, but when Bruce did not speak, he glanced up.

"Well?" Bruce prompted. Clark's mouth went dry as he realized that Bruce was really asking his permission. Clark was free to make his own excuses, or--

"If that's what--" Clark began, reflexively sinking back into the shelter of Clark Kent's meekness. Then he remembered he had no need to wear that mask tonight. "Yes."

"May I?" she reached for Bruce's glass. At his nod, she took it, swallowing the contents. She rose, slowly approaching Clark.

"I'm Vera." She lifted her chin. Despite her own height, she had to look up to meet his gaze.

"Kallum." Clark swallowed, though the sudden wrench of nerves did not fit his current character. 

"Kallum," she repeated.

"He goes by Kal." Bruce pushed himself out of his seat. He steadied himself with the cane, then reached out, offering his arm to her. Together, they left the bar, slowly making their way back to the elevators. Silently, Clark followed behind them.

When Clark glanced back from bolting the door, his eyes immediately fell on Bruce. Leaning against the foot of the bed, he slid his jacket down his shoulders and let it fall back on the coverlet. 

With a few short paces, Vera joined him. She kissed him now, no longer with fleeting contact, but long and lewd. As he watched, Bruce arched up, lifting his chest, and Clark realized Vera had her hand on his cock. Pulling back, she smiled, and Bruce echoed the gesture with a flash of teeth. She quickly disposed of his shirt, stripping him down to skin and scars in seconds. 

Bruce reached for the shoulder of her jumpsuit. With a slight tug of his fingers, it slipped downwards, showing her bare shoulder underneath. He continued to kiss her, open-mouthed, fingers sliding down the jumpsuit, first the straps then the top, then her bra. A pull of a zipper had her bare from the waist up.

She was utterly gorgeous. Smooth skin, and the tight coil of muscle just visible underneath. Clark could not keep his eyes on her as Bruce's muscles tensed and flexed, lifting her on top of him. It took a hand in his hair to drag him back, lips parted, from her breasts.

"Kal," Vera beckoned him. Clark knew from the way Bruce's abdominals flexed her fingers were still wrapped around his cock. Nervously, he approached. She glanced back to Bruce, then pushed him out flat across the bed. "Will you help me get his clothes off?"

It was not difficult to move forward, fingers reaching desperately for the front of Bruce's trousers. He found him there, as Vera had, hard and desperate and so, so eager to have anyone touch him. As he thumbed open the button to Bruce's trousers and felt him thrust his hips up into his hands, Vera's fingers strayed across his chest.

"You are very special, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?" Clark allowed the kiss that followed, even as he worked Bruce's slacks down his thighs.

"To have him of all people, desperate to have you." Her hand returned to Bruce's cock.

Bruce grunted, his hand curling around Vera's wrist. He pulled her back and Clark could not guess if that was because of what she had said or what he wanted to do to her. 

"It's true," Vera told Bruce sternly even as he pressed his lips against her chest. "Even I can see how much--" she yelped and arched as he pinched her nipple between his teeth. 

"Fuck, Bruce," she continued, wrapping her long fingers through his hair. "Just help me get these off of him."

Bruce pushed himself upright and gladly reached for Clark. While Vera worked at his belt and below, Bruce slid off his suit coat, his tie, and began to open his shirt. His eyes flickered up to meet Clark's as he worked at the buttons. Clark pulled him closer as he touched him, fingers skidding down his chest to the hard muscles of his stomach. Clark could feel his breath on his cheek, could see the entirety of his body as he reacted to Clark's touch.

He had seen Bruce bare-chested before. Often enough in fact to know the shape of the many scars that lay there, most old and silver. Despite his handicap, Bruce retained muscle, though he had lost some of his bulk. As Clark's eyes traveled lower, he abruptly came to a halt, staring at the scars on Bruce's hip. The entry wound, the linear scars from subsequent surgeries, all raised, pink and new. 

He did not dare to touch him there. Instead, Clark grasped him on either side of his waist. As Vera's fingers closed around his cock, he pressed his lips to Bruce’s' own. 

Bruce returned the kiss open-mouthed. There was no hint of hesitation as he pressed into Clark, his cock sliding against the fist Vera had wrapped around Clark's cock. "God," was all that she hissed, her free hand gripping at Clark's shoulder. He knew her eyes were fixed on them as he and Bruce pressed together again, all tongues. Bruce's cock knocked against her knuckles, rough and hard. 

"I want you." Vera put her hand to the broad plane of Clark's chest. She pushed, but not hard enough to topple him. "Kal, please."

Clark glanced at Bruce before he fell lightly, limbs spread out on the mattress. Tugging at the zipper at the small of her back, Vera straddled him. It took some time for her to bare herself completely, thighs spread over him. Fingers trailing up his chest, Vera nearly lay across him. 

He could feel her breasts pressed flat against his chest. Gently, he worked his hand up over the swell of her ass to the small of her waist. Clark could not help but contrast the way she felt against him from how Bruce had moments before. He could still feel the strong curve of Bruce's uninjured thigh under his head, the hard muscle of his ass as he slid his fingers over him and held him close.

Then Vera's hand was at his cock, guiding him up to press between her thighs. Clark could not help but groan as he slid along the wetness there. Her fingers encircled him, near the base of his member, pressing the head of his cock into her. Clark shut his eyes as she lowered herself, leaving one hand at her waist to support her. He could not help but swear quietly as she moved, hips working far more slowly than he had expected.

Bruce lay beside them, hand wrapped around himself. When Clark lifted his head to look at him he bit his lip, then spread his legs a little wider.

"Bruce," Clark whispered. He smoothed his hand up the inside of Bruce's thigh. Eyes fixed on him, he waited for permission. Bruce's hand slowed, then he released himself, allowing Clark to replace his fingers with his own.

Reverently slow, Clark touched him. His attentions quickly earned him a hiss as he began to work at Bruce cock. 

The pure pleasure of Vera tight around him frayed almost every restraint he had cultivated. He lowered his mouth to Bruce, finding the skin of his sac. His lips strayed over Bruce's balls before he enveloped him with the softness of his lips, tongue probing gently along the swollen orbs. For all his control, in spite of his injury, Bruce could not stop his hips from flexing, pushing himself against the firm wetness of Clark's mouth. He hissed as he pressed into his teeth, before Clark put his hand to his stomach, easily pinning him to the bed. It was then he took him fully in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he let his tongue drag along the thick vein that ran along the underside of Bruce's cock. 

"Shit." Bruce combed his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Clark's neck but did not pull.

Clark was close to losing control. He let his hips buck up into Vera, bringing a breathy gasp from her mouth. He dug his fingers into her hip, just short of bruising.

Whatever sound he might have made was muffled by Bruce's cock in his mouth. He came there, lips still closed around Bruce with Bruce looking at him as if...

"Cl-Kal," Bruce stuttered before he could come. He thrust into Clark's mouth, hand clasped tight over the back of his neck.

Clark simply swallowed as he felt his cum spurt into his mouth. He continued to mouth at him as Bruce came, letting him fuck his mouth, his lips, anything he might have wanted. 

Vera kissed them both before she left, tugging the strap of her jumpsuit back over her shoulder. 

That left Clark alone in bed with Bruce. The uncomfortable thought was enough to rouse him, and he walked into the bathroom to clean himself up.

When he returned, Bruce had barely moved. 

"I'm going to go to bed," Clark told him. Bruce nodded, still spread out over the mattress.  
7

Bruce seemed oddly relaxed when he joined Clark for breakfast at the table of their small cottage.

As they ate in silence, Bruce's phone buzzed. The calm that had settled over Bruce's features this morning quickly fell as he thumbed open the notification and glanced at the screen. Immediately, he stood, already making a call.

"I need the plane. Now."

Then he was out the door, barely pausing to grab his cane.

"Bruce?" Clark trailed behind him. "What's going on?"

Turning sharply, Bruce pressed his phone into Clark's hand. Somewhat confused, he took it and swiped his finger across the screen. A single photo expanded across the screen.

Dick lay prone on the ground, arms twisted behind his back. The cowl had been torn from his head, leaving his face unprotected. Blood seeped from his hairline, trickling down over his ear. It was clear he had been badly beaten, his suit torn.

Clark could not help but feel a burning fury. And all that he felt, he was sure was only a fraction of Bruce's own emotion.

"I should go."

"No."

"I could find him in minutes--"

"No, Clark." Bruce took the sloped path down to the main building, then across the narrow canal.

"Bruce," Clark tried to gain his attention. He considered grabbing his shoulder but thought better of it. "Bruce. I should tell you something."

Bruce turned towards him, jaw set, but did not break stride. They stepped onto the green, Bruce angling for the nearest hedges.

"There was something me and Dick were working together on."

"Does this have to do with the courthouse shooting?"

Clark winced, tilting his head. "Yes," he admitted. "He must have found something of interest."

"And you let him go alone?"

"No, of course not. I asked him to wait until I could be there, but...well, he's an adult. I can't control him."

"Is that meant to be criticism?" Bruce asked sharply, disgust obvious. "I suppose the more pertinent question is why neither of you spoke to me about this."

"We thought it was for the best."

"The best? Why? Were you worried I couldn't handle it myself?"

"We thought--" Clark sighed. "I wanted to make sure you were safe."

"You have no idea what you're dealing with, Kent."

Within the tall circle of oleander, camouflage shimmered and broke, revealing the Batwing.

“Wait,” Clark touched Bruce’s shoulder. "What are you saying? Are you telling me you know who's behind this?"

"Now is not the time for this." Bruce shook off his hand and started up the gangplank. He halted when Clark tried to follow him. "No. Stay here until I call for you."

"Bruce--"

"You need to tell the others I had to go to Gotham for an emergency."

Clark exhaled slowly, his simmering anger quickly giving way to guilt. If Dick’s life was in danger, he would have to trust Bruce.

That left Clark to make excuses for Bruce and to bear the brunt of Calygos’ frustration at Bruce’s sudden absence. He stayed scarcely longer, before flying to Gotham himself.

8

The scene at the Cave was quite the opposite of what Clark expected. He thought he would see Dick resting, Alfred near his side. Instead, he found him on his feet, nearly chest to chest with Bruce as he snarled. "Why would you think that I didn't need to know?"

"It was safer."

"Safer? It was safer for me not to know there was someone out there who knew who you were? That doesn't just put you in danger. That's a threat to your whole family."

"That’s correct," Bruce replied, though his tone clearly showed this was not a concession.

"You--"

Clark cleared his throat and glanced between the two. Dick took notice of him and stepped back. "Why don't you explain it to him. I'm done with this."

Jaw tight, Bruce watched as Dick ascended the stairs towards the manor.

“Is he alright?”

Bruce nodded slightly.

“And you?”

“Fine,” Bruce brushed off the question. Clark scanned him, but could find no injuries.

“Are you going to tell me who did this?” Clark couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice.

Bruce studied him for a moment, before relenting. “Henri Ducard.”

That told Clark very little. “Why did he want to kill you?”

“He didn’t.” “He’s a freelancer, espionage and murder for hire. His employer wanted to kill the Calygos merger.”

“How long have you known it was him?”

Bruce blinked and slowly turned to look at him. “Three months.”

“And why haven’t you done anything before this?”

“He’s too dangerous.” Bruce grimaced. “He could have killed my son.”

“And more than that,” he continued. “He would find a way to hurt you too. It would be far too easy for him to discover your identity.” He held Clark’s gaze steadily. “Anyone at all connected to me, anyone I cared about.”

“How does he know who you are?”

“Before I was Batman, I trained with him.” 

“I know the mistake seems obvious now, but I needed to learn the skills he possessed. The art of espionage and how to conduct an investigation. I thought that, at the end of it all, I would be able to turn him in to the DGSE.” Bruce smiled bitterly. “I was wrong of course.”

“I don’t blame you for that--” Clark tried to cut in.

“You need to understand, Clark. I helped him hunt a man, spending months getting close to him. Just for Ducard to kill him and collect the bounty on his head.”

“Okay, Bruce,” Clark placed his hand lightly on his shoulder. “I understand. But I hope you understand that this doesn’t change my opinion of you.”

Bruce exhaled. Clark could clearly see he that he did not believe him. Hand still on his shoulder, he pulled him close. “I trust you and I care about you. Will you accept that at least?”

Eventually, Bruce nodded. “Yes.”


End file.
